


Differentiate

by LEGUNDY



Series: LEGUNDERY Kinktober 2020 [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Obsession, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LEGUNDY/pseuds/LEGUNDY
Summary: When you spend your entire life with someone who shares your face, you'll begin to wonder if you share the same bones, too.
Series: LEGUNDERY Kinktober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950034
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Differentiate

**Author's Note:**

> Although there's no actual sexual content in this fic, it's sexually charged/horny enough for me to want to mention that the characters are 16 years of age here!

Will stared into the mirror at his own reflection. He traced his eyes down his cheeks, around the turn of his chin, the small dip above his nose. He studied himself closely as he sat cross-legged, trying to point out differences. His hair was a little longer - he'd gone longer without his being cut. He thought his eyes might be just a half a centimeter wider in diameter, perhaps, just that smallest bit adding a dissimilarity he was contented by. He ran his fingers through his hair to muss it and let it fall awkwardly against his forehead. That, too, was different, he decided. He didn't wear his hair like he did. Maybe he couldn't, either. Maybe gravity affected it just that little bit differently, refused to let it lay in exactly the same way.

He heard his voice before he heard the door, calling his name. "Wim?" He didn't bother turning around, still keeping his eyes locked on his own. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he answered.

"Help me in the kitchen. It's easier with two people." 

Will turned his head to look at his brother. He was wrong, he realized. Their eyes were the same size. Not even a tenth of a centimeter would differentiate.

"Do you think that they could tell our skeletons apart, Ivo?" he asked his brother.

Ivo made a face. "You're so gross. Come help me."

"Okay." He pulled his feet out from under him and began to rise. The sleep collected in his toes rushed up through his ankles and into his thighs at once and he stumbled, reaching blindly for the wall. Ivo was there in a moment, his arms out, grabbing his brother around the torso and keeping him propped up.

"Shake it out," he told him, and Will obediently did so, flexing his feet until the feeling returned. His arm was larger, he thought to himself. Will had the stronger legs, but Ivo had the stronger arms. There was a sure-fire difference.

But muscle doesn't remain on a skeleton. Still they would not be able to be identified individually. Will followed Ivo to the kitchen, still thinking this idea over.

"Why are you thinking about skeletons?" Ivo asked once they were kneading together, Ivo with half of the batch and Will with the other.

"I don't know," he replied. It wasn't worth it to go into. Especially not with Ivo, himself.

"Are you worried about something?"

"No." Nothing he could tell Ivo, he'd decided.

"You've been rolling around a lot in your sleep."

Will glanced over, but Ivo wasn't looking at him. "I hear it," he explained. "It's been for the past week or so, but not every day. I thought you were getting sick, but you seem okay otherwise." Suddenly he was looking at him head-on, studying him carefully with a flat brow. "Are you?"

"No," he answered. 

They continued kneading. Will let his eyes drift to Ivo's hands, his fingers pressing small divets before his palms smoothed them over by folding the dough onto itself. They were caked in flour, white on his suntanned skin with deep callouses on his palms and knuckles. When the dough stuck to a new piece of skin and peeled back a small amount of flour, the tan became even more apparent - and then it was just as quickly covered again. He'd felt his hands in that state before, matte with the texture, sticky in some spots. He imagined curling his fingers between his. The mix between feelings. Skin, callous, flour, dough.

He reached over and dumped his share in front of Ivo, sighing. "I don't want to," he moaned.

"Stop it. It's only four more minutes." Ivo set the dough back on his side. "It rises better if you do it all at once without a break." Will sullenly picked up the dough, digging his thumbs into it.

"You're a slave driver," he muttered.

"Ten minutes away from staring at yourself won't ruin your day," Ivo replied. "Why were you even doing that?"

"Thinking," he said, repeating his earlier claim.

"You don't have to think while sitting in front of a mirror." Will watched out of the corner of his eye as Ivo set the dough down and pressed his palms into it. The dough effortlessly flattened into a circle. He rolled the dough again and repeated the motion, grunting softly on his third time.

Will tore his eyes away. He set the dough down on the counter in front of him and pressed one palm in. It flattened, stretching out beyond his palms. He peeled it up and let his fingers break through the thinned circle.

These little differences made it bearable, he'd found. Knowing what separated him from his twin brother made existing like this beside him, always beside him, never apart from him, bearable. He woke in the middle of the night to his breath across the room. He waited outside the door to use the toilet while he brushed his teeth. He assembled lunch for school beside him, cleaned their room beside him. And then, separated by classtime, Will would catch his own reflection in something. A powered-off television. The mirror in the lavatory. A puddle on the basketball court as they walked outside for gym. He saw himself, and he saw Ivo, saw the same face he saw in his mind every time he closed his eyes. 

But it wasn't Ivo's face that he was looking at. It was his own - and he hated that. He needed to be able to distinguish them. He needed to be able to separate them. He hated his own body, so similar to Ivo's, but not his. He could touch himself, lean against the wall of the shower and bring himself to release - but it wasn't Ivo's touch, wasn't Ivo's release. He didn't know who he was beyond "Ivo's brother," "Ivo's twin," "Ivo's younger half." It was close, but not enough. He wished he was Ivo, wished he could change into him, be him for a day, a week, a year. If he could, he would cease to be apart at all. If he could be Ivo, could feel every muscle, every pore on his skin, every taste bud on his tongue, he would definitively know the difference.

Did the grass feel like this to Ivo? Did the sun burn like this to Ivo? Could his hand feel like this to Ivo? Would his voice sound like this to Ivo?

If he could define him, he could conquer him.


End file.
